


Divulged Discombobulation of Dead-End Memory Lane

by FandomTrash



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Childhood Memories, Death, I'm Bad At Titles, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Memories, Memory Lane that leads up to some shit, Multi, Sorta sad, Teen Angst, Teenagers, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11970768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: One time, my sister sat on the foot of my bed at exactly03:29 AMwith tears down her face, fingers so tightly wrapped in my bedsheets that her knuckles turned white. Eventually, she spoke; voice hoarse and croaky, trembling,“Word of advice, fratellino:”“Don'teverfall in love.”“I know I don't ask you a lot of things,” She started, looking to me with catastrophic coalition, “Promise me this, Nico:” I nodded for what felt like the millionth time that night, unprepared for what she asked of me next, “Don'teverfall in love. It'll be the death of you.” Didn't I know it.A pinky finger was held out to me, for me to link with my own. I did, as I muttered a stoic oath that I had already broken, numb to the bones.“If you do, don't come grovelling to me about it.”





	Divulged Discombobulation of Dead-End Memory Lane

One time, my sister sat on the foot of my bed at exactly **03:29 AM** with tears down her face, fingers so tightly wrapped in my bedsheets that her knuckles turned white. She said nothing for what felt like forever, silently sobbing in a way much more genuine than the miserable guilt-trip she'd mastered. Eventually, she spoke; voice hoarse and croaky, trembling,

“Love sucks, Nico.”

I nodded, unsure of what else to do. My room had been dark; lights off, save for the luminous blue glow from my laptop. I'd been working on something, but I don't remember anymore. She ran a hand through her dark hair, the split ends curling as she twisted locks around her finger. I used to hate braiding her hair every morning, but she usually bullied me into doing it. (It never occurred to me that she pestered me to do it because it was the only interaction period we'd share every day.)

“It really fucking sucks, Nico.”

She blinked back more tears, caramel eyes glossy as her gaze bore into me: heartbroken, tense. Erratic, to a certain degree, but I never have been one to give details beyond that. I remember giving a heavy sigh, nodding once again. My sister scoffed, wiping her damp face with her sleeve, before her hand returned to it's white-knuckle grip on my comforter.

I remember a lot of things, now that I think about it, but one thing in particular had been how small she looked that night. So small, fragile in the sense of glass shattered. I remember seeing myself in her eyes that night. Truly, for the first time in nine years – my entire life, I had found myself in somebody else, somebody I could relate to, could _understand_.

So when she fell into another round of silent tears, I hadn't done much more than pat her shoulder with halfhearted consolation. Anything more than that would've felt wrong, out of place. That's not me and my sister's dynamic: never had been, and I suppose it never will be ~~if I see her again~~. “Bianca,” Had fallen my mouth, uncertainty sounding strange on my tongue. She had quickly fallen from her melancholic stupor, throwing her hands up in what I now come to recognize was unreasoned frustration.

“Word of advice, fratellino:”

She turned to glare at me once more, stern, determined to drill her next words into my head. I shifted on my bed, meeting her gaze with my own form of aggravation (why would I listen to my eleven year old sister? What does she know?)

“Don't _ever_ fall in love.”

I supposed that made sense. I'd seen what it had done to mom; we both had. She ran another anxious hand through her hair, nose rosy as she sniffled, “All it does if fuck you over, Nico,” She sighed, “Love is just another word for disappointment.” I remember feeling my heart twist uncomfortably in my chest; _I already knew that._ I'd learned that before this impromptu late night/early morning life lesson. (His name was something long forgotten now.)

“Love is extra weight, and it'll drag you down like everything else. Ignore it, and you'll feel thousands of times lighter than you ever will with it.” She rambled, staring aimlessly out my window to the stars outside. There hadn't been few, I remember, but a newer one gleamed brightly among the duller ones. To this day, I don't know if that meant something to her or not.

Shrugging, she crossed her legs and blinked back at me, “It'll feel nice at first, y'know?” I nodded. She tucked hair behind her ear, swallowing thickly as she stared down at her purple pajama shorts, “Then, it's great, after a while, because you're getting to know them, you're starting to get them to open up to you,” I nodded again, quiet, pained by the familiarity of her words. “After that? It's like a baseball bat to the rib-cage, because it turns out they like somebody.” Her words hung in the air for a while, echoing off the peeling wallpaper of my small room.

“Somebody that isn't _you_ , isn't remotely like you, throwing any chance you had into the deepest hell possible.” At that point, my hand fell from her shoulder to her hand, lacing our fingers as she gripped my bedsheets. “And it fucking _hurts_.” I nodded, something along the lines of acknowledgment out of my mouth, but it fell on deaf ears. I guess it hadn't been all that encouraging in the first place.

“I know I don't ask you a lot of things,” She started, looking to me with catastrophic coalition, “Promise me this, Nico:” I nodded for what felt like the millionth time that night, unprepared for what she asked of me next, “Don't _ever_ fall in love. It'll be the death of you.” Didn't I know it.

A pinky finger was held out to me, for me to link with my own. I did, as I muttered a stoic oath that I had already broken, numb to the bones. She pulled back, stood from my bed and headed for my bedroom door. Hesitating, she turned back to me with a more contemptuous, contumacious look on her face. Familiar, practically herself again. “If you do, don't come grovelling to me about it.” Then she closed my door, and didn't talk about it later that morning.

I think that's the only time I will ever take advice from an eleven year old.

* * *

On a foggy morning, my mother died. We were both sort of expecting it, me and my sister, when we were informed of her suicide. Expired medication and one too many bottles of liquor, her body found by me, slumped over in her favorite seat in the house. The rocking chair on the back porch, where the trees reached for the sky, the sunrise filtering through the trees.

I remember how peaceful she looked, how she seemed to cradle the liquor and the pill bottle to her chest as if she loved them more than her two children. Coarse, thick, mahogany curls resting delicately around her shoulders, complimenting the rich hue of her olive skin. The sangria of her skirt hitched up to rest just above her ankles, cream blouse rolled up at the sleeves; as if she'd been baking the night before. (It turned out she had been; filling tupperware after tupperware with all her beloved recipes: the last we'd ever taste of her cooking.)

I was struck; her skin, when I came to grasp her hand, had been colder than ice. Her lips had been a deep shade of blue, flesh only looking so alive by the deceptive rays of sunlight streaking through the glen beyond our backyard fencing. The terror, the fear that struck through me had been paralyzing, staggering to a fault. But worse than that? Worse than that had been the nonchalance backing it all up, how, after the brief assessment of my mother's corpse, I hadn't been all that surprised. The eerie disinterest that manifested within me, hand slipping from her icy fingers.

She'd been out there all night, eavesdropping on officers will tell me and my sister later. That, I guessed, is what explained the soft, teary singing I heard outside my window – the sound I fell asleep to obliviously. A note had been uncovered; something simple that was tacked to one of the tupperware boxes. A clichéd apology that you could find anywhere, something falsely written in attempts to grasp our forgiveness so she could rest peacefully.

It was a tongue-in-cheek scenario. Estimated time of death had been **01:00 AM** , meaning she had committed suicide on a Sunday. My mother had been a strongly religious person. Sunday being one of the holy days, according to her belief. No matter what the note she left said, no matter how pleading she may have been; she'd go to Hell.

Somewhere, I think she knew that.

I remember the funeral being a large gathering; the entirety of my mother's family, all loudly sobbing and weeping over the words of the priest who stood at the front of the pews. Of course, it had been held in a church, and whilst I hadn't held any interest in the happenings around me, my mind had been to the pretty colors that streamed through the stain-glass windows. My mother loved the colors, burst to life with every pigmentation of the rainbow.

It felt wrong, to see her so still and stiff in the casket; donned in black from head to toe, mauve lipstick and eyes lined heavily with kohl. My sister pulled a 'brave face', according to many extended relatives, bestowed the burdensome responsibility that was me whilst social workers tried to find us new homes. I don't think my mother's people ever really liked me as much as my sister. After all, I take more after our father in that regard; they hated him for leaving our mother with two kids to raise herself.

A pretty petty reason to hate him, honestly, considering none of them bothered to lend a hand.

After the reception, me and my sister had slipped away from the crowd shroud in black and mourning, coming to sit on one of the benches in the graveyard. Our mother would have been buried later, after many had said their dues, their blessings, their goodbyes. Not that their blessings would do anything. Mamma would be going with the rest of the sinners, if 'God' had any say in it.

My sister stared down at her black flats, wriggling her toes in them with a quiet huff. “You don't seem surprised by it,” She whispered. I shrugged, playing with the buttons of my shirt, “Neither do you.” She smiled bitterly at that, reclining against the bench, “Touché.”

I remember seconds flying by, before we cracked into wide grins. Inappropriate, looking at the circumstances, but...I still don't know. Maybe it was just how foreign she looked in that moment; without her green cap, silky black hair done up in a fancy style by one of the many distant aunts we'd never met, face prettied by makeup that was too mature for a twelve year old. Maybe it was because I felt so uncomfortable in my untucked button-up, squeaky leather shoes a tad too big for my feet and cigarettes I swiped from one of our great-something's back pocket burning a hole in my own.

After that, it was just sort of a muddled mess. I had just continued to smile when she rambled about how obvious it was that our mother was sick in the head, that she needed more care than we did. It was all true, painfully true, and I guess that's what made the situation lighter.

They say people who laugh in the face of death are brave, courageous.

What they don't realize is that in reality, people who laugh in the face of death have a few screws loose.

“We're going to hell, aren't we?” My sister asked after a while. To that, I simply shrugged, “I don't care if we do or don't. Hell's gonna be empty when we get down there.” She snorted, raising a cocky eyebrow, “How come?” I remember smirking sardonically, almost on the verge of sarcastic – conversational, “Call me unoriginal, but all the sinners are up here already.” I remember the spark in her eyes as I said that, something snapping, or perhaps awakening something else.

But, I'm not one for details beyond that.

* * *

I got into some weird habits when I moved from New Jersey to California to New York with my dad. (My mom may have been from Italy, but she had always loved the grit and grime of New Jersey. Then we moved in with my dad down in CA, before being relocated to NY.) My sister said it was because of the new environment, my dad just told me that as long as I didn't get caught and drag him into the mess, I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

Not exactly the most positively influential environment for a twelve year old.

So I set dumpsters on fire outside of restaurants, swiped items that I didn't exactly have a use for, pick-pocketed from the teachers at my school. Don't ask why; I never would have been able to tell you (except, now I can, since I'm older, and can put more thought into things.)

I also really got into card games – good enough that I started betting money with other sixth-graders and seventh-graders. Or, sometimes not money, but belongings that I found myself wanting, and easily winning. Unsurprisingly, it's more of a skill in New York; they have more strip clubs than casinos and local street bets. So I had that going for me for a while, which was a bonus.

Though, the strangest thing, I think, was _music._ And sure, okay, whatever; it's music. But when you look at me, look at what I was into as a younger child, you wouldn't really peg me as somebody who cared a lot for it. My mom never really sang anything, Bianca only ever listened to Indie Pop (or whatever the hell it was,) and well, I didn't get a phone until I moved in with my dad, so things like YouTube and music apps never really got introduced to me.

So yeah, whatever the hell you wanna say, I found my sudden interest in music to be pretty strange. Especially when I held a multitude of genres ranging from Nirvana, Green Day, Linkin Park to Coldplay, Arctic Monkeys, The Front Bottoms and everything in between. Gradually, I collected CDs – y'know, when they were a thing – and blew all the money I gained on merchandise and other things related.

And whilst my other hobbies leaned to the more offensive outlet (I guess, that's what the school's guidance counselor said,) music just sort of...remained along the guidelines, always there – like a dad watching his kid play baseball, or something. Or some other stereotypical father/son activity. Well, okay, that's a weird metaphor, but I've never really cared for that stuff.

I made a few friends, too, weirdly enough. Two twins (Connor and Travis,) going by _The Stolls_ among the school I was in; they were the guys that hung around to make sure the 'gambling' I was doing at school was fair – no hidden cards up your sleeves, things like that. They were pretty cool; I bonded with them quickly, over our interest for the crap arcade downtown and people's misfortune after a crafty prank. That's another thing I got into; practical jokes. Nothing... _too_ harmful; paint on a certain Drew Tanaka's precious cashmere, swapping a smartass' test papers with some dumbfuck's test papers. Again; not _too_ harmful. Just enough to affect them – in a sadistic, cruel way, it was amusing. But yeah, The Stolls have been pretty good people to hang with when shit's on your mind.

Other people, too, which was even more absurd. A scrawny, anemic blond by the name of Octavian of all the pompous names out there. He was pretty annoying, I guess. He was mainly around due to lack of any other company, and we sort of bonded over the grim fascination with the dissection of something. Little things – frogs, birds that were found near the windows after hitting them – things that were already damaged in some way, to ease my conscience. If only a little.

A twelve year old's gotta find closure somewhere.

So three people – two, considering The Stolls worked as one entity. And sure, I guess I was happy with that; we ate at under the tree at lunch, before kids started strutting up to me with their pockets weighing them down with quarters and loose dollars. I never bet much; couldn't. Most of my spare money went to the things I bought. Now that I think about it, I never really have been into candy or the latest video game.

It was all good, though; I won most of the time, painfully easily. They'd storm away, a few jeers from my friends at their fading figure as I stuffed whatever they bet into my pockets. Octavian never paid a lot of attention; sort of let his mind drift to the busy road just a couple feet beyond the chain-link fence.

I remember the day he brought a pair of bolt cutters to school. They had fit easily into his faded, patched gymbag: they still had the Home Depot tag on them. The blond boy had held this manic sort of look – frantic, panicking. Shaky grin on his mouth, he licked his lips, “We can get outta here.” He'd promised.

The Stolls had laughed, goading the thin boy (thinner than me, and 'til this day, that is saying something,) on. As if I was the final hammer on the nail, I remember precisely the look Octavian turned on me. Like a lion in a cage; an evoking, fiery, desperate look meant for addicts and actual lions, not for the gaunt face of an eleven year old. Though, in his own way, I guess Octavian was a lion. A starving, weak lion that struggled to close the bolt cutters around the chain links.

After shoving him aside, I worked at the fence until a decent sized hole was made. The wiring had curled in all directions, warped by the steel cutters. There was an inhuman force of my younger friend forcing me aside as he scampered out into the busy streets. Me and The Stolls had laughed, following him without worry. We were kids. We had escaped the shithole, left to explore blindly, carelessly; naïvely.

It continued like that for weeks. Every lunch time, I'd fuck around with a couple of the seventh-graders, take their money or their favorite key-chain, before I had Octavian by the scruff of his collar, Stolls quick on my tail as we slipped out of the school grounds. There was unleashed freedom – it never got tiring. The increase of traffic, honking horns like deranged melodies in my ears, the New Yorkan slurs ringing loudly as we ran around like strays.

Knocking over food stands so we could grab some in the chaos: it was easy to get away; so much hustle and bustle, it was hard to pinpoint the troublemakers. You won't believe the fun I experienced. Blood coursing through my veins, pulse heavy, wild in my chest and breathless encore for _more, more, you anemic fucker, show me more!_

So when one day, when we found a teacher hovering near our usual spot one lunchtime during April, there was a subdued sensation of distraught, distress. My freedom was gone. “Fun time is over,” She'd said with that particular haughtiness to her voice, face wrinkled in a way that made me scrunch my nose. Then, expectantly, she had arched a thin eyebrow, “Which one of you did this?”

Octavian had looked close to wetting his pants. (I knew what happened at home, I knew he came to school with bluish purple bruises under his clothes and a scrambled head. I think that's one reason for why I did what I did.) The Stolls ducked their heads, hands in sync to their necks, a murmur of, “Weren'us.” slipping out. (I knew how many times they'd already gotten into trouble. Another strike to their names, and they'd be kicked out. I think that's the other reason I did what I did.)

I remember her beady eyes turning to me, sneer on her mauve, cheaply painted lips. Staring directly back at her, I raised my chin defiantly, “I did.” I never liked that particular teacher. She was a bitch. I didn't like the smirk on her face, either, as she crooned in her weak, croaky voice, “Well then I suppose I'll have you come with me to the principal's office, then. And a call to your father.” easily I just grabbed my backpack, “Sure. Sounds fun.”

She'd been disgruntled by how I _grinned_ at her, trying to look upbeat and excited by the 'dreaded' next hour or two. I remember turning back to my friends, finding them conflicted and guilty. Twelve year old me was a peculiar thing, I realize, looking back. Definitely, the shrug of _what can you do?_ certainly startled them. It was worth it, I think.

If I was locked outside of the apartment that night, nobody had to know.

* * *

They never did repair the fence, thus nothing was in our way of running out of the school playground. Just, one day, Octavian seemed... _off,_ I guess. Well, okay, he'd been 'off' for a week. The same kind of 'off' my mom had been. Dejected, downcast a lot of the time. He had less enthusiasm when prodding at woodpecker guts and explaining to me which was what. He paid less attention as I tried to cheer him up by picking apart the bones and crackling them in that way he always found funny.

Octavian didn't like being in school anymore. Not at all. Not for dissecting frogs in class, or to oggle that preppy redhead with the olive green eyes in art. He didn't snicker in that breathy way anymore that had sort of grown on me, or move his hand over an imaginary cat in his lap. He didn't do any of his weird, unique Octavian-like things anymore.

He just...stared out to the fast-paced traffic only a couple feet beyond the fence.

The Stolls had worried to me about it, in an uncharacteristic show of concern. I remember only shrugging, trying to ignore the signs, ignore the empty, hollow pang in my chest at the idea of what was coming.

It was my fault I didn't stop him. Just...he just booked it one day. Tiny, scrawny, eleven year old Octavian with those startlingly icy blue eyes and that quirky little grin, and the unspoken issues hiding in the bruises under his shirt, the broken bones under his skin.

Friday. It'd been on a Friday. The last day of the semester, the last day of the school year. He would've turned twelve over the summer, his birthday being only two days away. On a Sunday. ~~The fucking irony~~.

It was my fault. The Stolls gave a cry of shock, all three of us still rooted to our places under the tree. Such a light body, Octavian had easily fled for the truck that sped along the road. It was my fault. I should've stopped him, talked to him, told him he could tell somebody – should tell somebody. But I didn't. I had seen the signs, recognized all the things I'd seen in my mother, and sat aside ignorantly. It was my fault.

My fault Octavian became a spatter of blood on a truck's bumper. My fault an eleven year old's bones were crushed under the weight of an eighteen-wheeler. My fault.

But...I don't know. There's always gonna be _what if's_ and _coulda done, shoulda done_ so there's no point in dwelling on it. I should've saved him, I could've saved him; what if he was still alive right now? We'll never know. And quiet frankly? It's just one more inconvenience gone from the universe. And when I go (sooner rather than later, I predict,) it'll be just the same. One more grain of misplaced potential wiped from the face of the earth.

I learned that at twelve.

* * *

Maybe if humans weren't such social creatures, I wouldn't have broken my promise to my sister. But my broken promise came in the name of Percy Jackson; he was cute, I guess at the time. I dunno; I was thirteen, at a new school because after news got out about Octavian, my dad yanked me out before I could get blamed for anything and transferred me to some uppity school a little into the city. We still lived in the suburbia – I could still hang out with The Stolls on weekends and neglect my homework, I could still do pretty much everything I had done previously.

Just...no more 'gambling'. No more talking away the hours about the newest song _Black Veil Brides_ had released. No more setting obvious pins on teacher's chairs, watching them move it away before sitting down, struggling to withhold laughter as they hollered in pain at the realization that the entire insides of their pretentious leather chairs had been filled with nails. No more fun, essentially.

So, since I never learned about what happened to Octavian's bolt cutters, I remained trapped in the pen. Word got around about my friend's suicide, people coming to me with questions I blatantly ignored -

 _Were you there?_ Go play in traffic.

 _How old was he?_ Old enough to know he wanted to end it.

 _Are you upset about it?_ Fuck yourself.

 _I heard you were friends with him_. What's it to you, fucker?

And eventually people stopped nearing me at all. Days blurred by quickly; class, class, class, recess, class, lunch, class, class, class. Percy Jackson just sort of disrupted it all. New kid; newer than me, more liked than me, more charismatic than me. 'Troubled' boy. Had a couple records on him; third school he'd been moved to. Good for him. Now see if I cared.

The audacity he had – the _nerve_ , the fucking adorable friendliness and genuine interest in me – to sit next to me was awakening. Right; I wasn't a robot. I liked setting dumpsters on fire, stealing shit from the teacher's pockets, collecting CD's and singing off-key with a pair of twins at park at stupid times, going with them on weekends to the city with quarters weighing us down to waste on the arcade that's a couple decades out of date.

Right.

That's what summarized me.

So he came with a smile, ready to try and befriend me. I scooted my chair as close to the window as I could, glaring at him with something menacing. The smile dropped from his face, startled. The words died on his tongue, brief satisfaction simmering under my skin, “Go find somebody else to sympathize your god-awful fuck-up story.”

His smile returned, tenfold. Percy Jackson sidled right up next to me, laughing breathlessly, “Somebody's grouchy today,” He'd grinned brightly. Green eyes, a lovely smile, messy black hair and skin from the Mediterranean. Cute qualities, I'd seen at the time. (Now? God, he's grown to be the next fucking Adonis.)

And then...he just sort of stuck to my side like a barnacle.

I found myself enjoying his company. Growing more attached to his touches – whether he ruffled my hair, or just hugged me until I couldn't breathe. I learned quickly that it didn't meant anything; he was just an affectionate person, and that was okay. While I myself wasn't particularly up to date with that sort of thing, it was _okay_.

At home, Bianca had dropping grades, getting mixed up in this girl-gang. Dad didn't care, just hid further and further into his work papers, barely remembering to feed us since day one. The nights I spent outside the apartment had become far too frequent. Bianca found great pleasure in knowing I was freezing my ass off on the fire escape now days, or warming myself with the fire from dumpsters I find joy in setting alight.

At home, everything was shit (is shit.) Bianca had packed bags sitting by her windowsill more often than not. They bulged with everything she could stuff in there; clothes, a couple hundred dollars I don't want to know how she got a hold of, food. I saw the signs, I did. I knew those signs, I recognized them. She was going to run away, I know she was, she was dying in New York. It wasn't California, it wasn't New Jersey or Italy. It was gray and miserable all the time, death around every dark alley and screaming from drivers on every main road. She was a wilting flower struggling to bloom without the sun. I ignored all of it for the most part.

Letters were getting sent home from school again. They'd been sent home multiple times in my previous school – antisocial behavior, breaking rules, unacceptable attitude towards teachers. All of those had warranted meetings with the principal, leading to no dinner at home, no apartment door open for me to return home to. Punishment enough, I got it: I was a shitty kid. Though I think I still deserved all those slaps my dad had given me, the one punch that threw me into the wall and left me with an aching purple bruise for weeks afterward.

But...there'd been brief peace over the summer. Now the letters were coming back full-force. My grades had been shit since the start, but they'd gotten _worse_ since I met Percy Jackson.

He'd awoken the little bit of me that went quiet and cold after Octavian. My room started filling up with useless clutter again; my money jar almost overflowing with all the cash I was getting from the card-games behind the school. Percy didn't need to know about any of it. He needed to avoid me, stay with that cheery part of the school that he could flourish in. I told him these things, I warned him every time I got a black eye from some kid's older brother for 'stealing' their favorite gizmo.

Do you know what he'd tell me, each and every time? “You're my best friend, Nico. I don't want to 'flourish' unless you're there to help me.” _To help me_. Keep dreaming, fucker, that's what I thought.

I remember one time he found me fighting with some asshole behind the school. Brawny, dumb, slow. I got him down easily, got to keep the gameboy I won fair and square. I turned, smirking to myself as I tucked my deck back into my pocket, bag on my shoulder; before the smile fell from my face.

Percy stared at the scene, looking owlish – betrayed, almost, confused. Then he narrowed his eyes, “What the hell, dude? That's _so_ not cool.” He didn't understand the situation. I didn't feel the need to fill him in. I'll never feel the need to explain myself to anybody – nobody needs to understand. I'll be me, you can go fuck yourself. “Why did you just beat up Bryce? For _no_ reason!” he'd harped, but I just shrugged, “Tried to take my shit from me.”

I felt cold. Chills up my spine, dread in my stomach, disinterest masking it all. Instead of bothering me, Percy had given me one last, hurt look, before rushing to the aid of some douchebag. I didn't know why I felt so jealous that time (I did, I just didn't want to admit it.) The worried mutters of my 'best friend' resounding in my ears, though the reassurance wasn't for me, so I left quickly.

Hopped the nearest fence, shoved my hands in my pockets, and let my feet lead me to The Stolls. I remember the way pretty well, even now, four years later. I always will, I think. They still loitered near the hole in the fence, smoking cigarettes and selling random shit to greedy sixth-graders. They didn't even turn to me as they grinned, in sync, “How's seventh grade treating you, our liege?” _Ghost King._ Snorting, I'd just beckoned them blindly to follow me, turning tail before they could move from the tree.

I think they're the only people I'll ever rely on to catch me if I fall. That, _that_ is a scary thought.

“It's shit. How 'bout you guys?” I asked them, feeling their slightly taller presence on either side of me. Growth spurts had caught me by surprise over the summer; I was only about an inch shorter than either of them now. The Stolls hadn't answered me, looping their arms over my shoulders.

Instead, they snickered, “Heard Biatch's meant to be makin' a run for it.” _Biatch = Bianca_. Shrugging, I huffed, “Wouldn't be surprised.” I wouldn't, because I already knew she would. The day had been lost to me from there; I think I just needed to let off steam after that brief encounter with Percy Jackson that day. Though, I don't remember returning to school, either, so.

Getting home that day had been hectic. Bianca leering at me as I brushed past her, ignoring the angry, looming figure of my father in the study area. My sister slipped into my room beside me, grinning wickedly like a cat toying a mouse, “So, fratellino,” she drawled.

Glancing up, I remember not so much as flinching at the sudden proximity she forced onto me, breath brushing my face, “You broke your promise.” Raising an eyebrow, I'd shoved her away, “Don't know what you're talking about.” _yes I did yes I did yes I did_. She snorted, rolling her eyes. Falling onto my bed, she cackled loudly, “Bullshit, Nico. I see the way you walk, how you're talking so... _defensively_ ,” She hissed, smile dropping.

Everybody seemed to do that in my presence.

“You've got a crush.” _Don't say that_.

“You're got a goddamn crush, and you're doing nothing about it.” _thanks for spelling it out._

“You're caught in somebody's fucking web, aren't you? Let me guess, they don't even like you back, huh?” I didn't answer. She grabbed my hair, slamming me to the window, “ _They don't like you back, do they, Niccolo?_ ” I don't know why she had been so insistent on it. I think it was because she didn't want to be alone. I think she'd fallen in love again, and was feeling self-pitying about it. I'll never know.

So I just snorted, spitting out something that made her flinch away from me. Huffing, I told her to get the fuck outta my room. “I'm not pathetic enough to fall in love a first time,” I'd snarled, lying through my teeth, “Let alone a second time.” She had been hurt; I seemed to have a knack for that. But she left my room without preamble.

The day after, Percy greeted me – not with with a _hey man, how you doin'?_ \- with an angry, confused stare. Sitting next to me in homeroom, like usual, just...not talking to me. He wanted answers. To what, I had no idea, so I just sat back and waited for him to ask. Not long after he groaned, “Dude _where were you?_ You never came back yesterday.” I shrugged, “I ditched.” I remember him blinking widely, like he had a habit of doing, working his mouth slowly. Then he scowled, “They're gonna send letters home.” I nodded. “They're gonna get you in trouble.” I nodded again, shrugging. I was already in trouble for shit.

The conversation dropped after that; he learned to stay out of my business, me out of his.

But there were signs. Always signs – he was hurting, he was upset. Something was on his mind, making him quieter, less attentive, less vocal. Octavian had lapsed like that. Here's the thing; I knew. I knew, I _fucking knew._ This was my chance to make things better; encourage him to confide in somebody, maybe even _me_ if he was that desperate, and get the problem fixed. Thing is? I was afraid.

What if I was wrong?

What if I was jumping the gun?

What if it was just me feeling guilty over something, making up symptoms for something nonexistent.

But no, no, _no_. I knew what I saw. He had weird burns in the crooks of his elbows, fading bruises around his wrists, and sometimes a black eye. I heard the crackle and creak of his ribs every time he sighed, the heaviness like a weight crushing his shoulders. Lanky arms and legs, awkwardly wide shoulders on a not quite ready body. No, I knew what I was looking at. I knew there were bruises hidden under his shirts. I knew there was depression looming around the corner. Things get bad, he'd be only another splatter of candy-red paint on somebody's hearse.

So, some time nearing the middle of the year, I pulled him aside and showed him a loose plank in the school fence. This one was wooden; you could easily just vault over it, but it'd cost you horrendous splinters. So a few loose nails had easily enabled a plank to be moved, and viola. An escape.

Percy had sighed heavily, looking reluctant as I ushered him through the gap. There was a brief moment where the sun caught him _just so_ and I found my fragile, weak, pathetic thirteen year old self believing that he was the most stunning human on this earth. Before I blinked, and he was just another gangly-limbed boy. Just like me. Just like the rest of them. Nothing special to him. (Except there was, there was so much to love about him, but I just remained in denial.)

“Where are we going, Nico?” He'd ask on multiple occasion. Weary, tired, sounding in pain with every stride we made. I remember feeling so terribly sorry for him, sorry that I couldn't really do anything to help him. But the story I'd tell him once we reached the destination seemed to do something.

We stopped outside the ragged hole that lead into the hell of my old school. The Stolls weren't there; though I find out later that day, after school, that they didn't attend there anymore.

We stopped, me turning him away from the chain-link fence to the road. As grim as it was, there was a dark stain on the gray concrete, were Octavian had died. Blood splatter; the violent images blurring past my eyes briefly before I swallowed thickly and turned to Percy. He was giving me a perplexed look; a puppy, almost. Somewhere whispered to me that he was simply adorable.

“This is where...where my friend died, Percy.” I whispered, but he heard me, even over the roar of traffic. His green eyes widened, a soft gasp leaving his lips; he whirled to stare closer at the stain embedded into the street. I sat on the sidewalk, letting the information sink in. he turned to the whole in the fence, gaze softening, “You went to this school, huh?” Nodding, I ran a hand through my hair, “Look; I'm gonna tell you some shit, okay? And...” He sat beside me, quiet.

“I want you to just listen, a'ight?” He nodded that time, looking at me like a lost puppy. I just hoped my weird, indirect story would help him out. I took a few seconds, aimlessly losing myself in the event from only one summer ago. Everything had seemed black and white in that moment – the sounds amplified horrendously, the spray of blood like a burst cherry amongst it all. His body curving with the momentum of the truck, landing in a specific way that left his head crooked at an awkward angle – skull splintering under the weight of the truck's wheels. His limp body was crushed by the other moving vehicles; a torn, beat mess of marred flesh and blood quickly seeping into the cracks on the road.

I breathed a long, heavy sigh, the image not leaving no matter how rapidly I blinked. So I just spoke, quietly, ignoring the many New Yorkers that brushed past us. “Octavian...he was my best friend, okay? One of them, anyways. And -” I shrugged, throat suddenly tightening like a vice , “He was getting abused at home. I.”

Bitterly, I gritted my teeth, curling my hand into a fist, “I knew. Did nothing about it, but I knew.” Percy was stiff beside me; when I met his eyes, he refused to meet mine. _Hammer on the nail_. “But, ha,” There was a tense silence, but I choked my way through it, “Black and blue under his shirt...i – he was dying, I think. Just...slowly, very slowly; right in front of us. Me and – and my other friends.” Percy forced a nod, hand coming to curl around his sleeve uncomfortably. I refused to look away from him.

He couldn't become another wasted life.

There was an odd pain that bloomed in my chest, something that hadn't been there when the 'Octavian Incident' actually happened. I guess reliving it made those feelings emerge from where I'd shoved them. I tried to ignore them, nearly glowering into the side of his head, since he wouldn't look at me. “He never told anybody, but I guess that was on me. I – I never...I never paid enough attention to realize how badly he needed help.”

“I was wrong to believe he would just tell somebody and get the issue over and dealt with. His dad was an alcoholic; mom sick and the hospital was sapping up whatever money his dad brought home with him.” Percy _shuddered_ ; I remember, because a quiet whimper came with it. A heartbreaking sound that twisted my stomach the wrong way.

“Is there a reason you're telling me this?” He'd rasped, finally looking at me. Teary, face blotchy like faces always bloomed when the need to cry came up. Quietly, I stared deeply into him, silent. Before I muttered, “You _know_ why.” Sputtering, he lurched away like I'd bitten him; defeat showing in the way his shoulders slumped. “How'd you...know?”

I told him it was because a lot of kids reminded me of him from the school a couple yards behind us.

In actuality, it was because my life seemed intent to replicate Octavian's.

* * *

Percy seemed to recover quickly after that. Physically, at least. The cigarette burns on the inside of his elbows stopped increasing in population (five on the right, three on the left,) and he was less cagey about getting changed in the locker rooms, now. No longer ducking into the cramped cubicles nestled in the corner by the door. No, that was mine now.

He seemed...happier, again, too. So that was a bonus. However, that didn't stop the recognition that started to swim in those green eyes, the way he started to try and look deeper into me. Like he could. Fourteen, inexperienced with reading people – too excitable, too much like a puppy – and on the road to recovery? It's no wonder he got annoyed with me when I played blasé.

Percy Jackson liked to ask strange questions.

“Did you eat breakfast this morning?” _(You're thinner than last week.)_

“Do you ever just...not feel like waking up?” _(You're sad a lot.)_

“Have you ever, like I dunno, intentionally hurt yourself?” _(I saw that deep cut under the hem of your boxer-shorts the other day in the locker room.)_

“How would you react if somebody called you something mean to your face?” _(You were rubbing_ _ **FUCKING FAG**_ _off your locker a couple days ago.)_

“Ever felt like suddenly bursting into tears? Just randomly?” _(You look like you want to. All the time.)_

Lots of strange questions. I answered most of them with simple 'no's, but a few of them warranted enough hesitation from me for him to fill in blanks. He'd get more and more agitated, the less I told him, but anger quickly changed to fear when I withdrew all together.

There was disgusting solace in the idea he liked having me around.

* * *

I found out why The Stolls weren't at school the days following my little story. Turns out they left town. No goodbye, no warning ahead of time; just gone. I went over to their house at some point on the weekend, found a _for sale_ sign covered by _sold_ on their lawn. No traces they were ever there. Betrayal was something I entertained, before deciding to just move on.

People come and go, I've learned.

Bianca forced me to swallow some pills a friend passed to her the day after; wanted to make sure she wouldn't die if she took them. Worst hours of my life, and, equally, ones I'll never get back. Just lying on my bed, stomach churning violently with every quickened pulsation of my heart. I hurled into the toilet until I was dry heaving, spittle stringing from my lip to the toilet bowl. I remember hearing her snicker from the doorway, bottle of sketchy pills rattling teasingly in her pocket.

“Well, thanks, lab rat. I'll have words with Olivia.” _Lab rat_. Stomach twisting, I hacked more into the toilet. She left quickly after that, cackles echoing down the hallway.

Percy gave me weird looks the next Monday back. “What's with your eyes?” He'd asked. “And – you're...you look high, seriously.” Rubbing my eyes, I told him I was just tired. Obviously, he didn't believe me, sounding more distraught as he tried to pressure me to talk. Didn't end well. Hissing, “Percy. I am fine. Leave me the _fuck alone_.” Wounded, hurt; he swallowed around whatever retort he had.

Standing – too fast, far too fast – I grabbed my bag and stalked away from the cafeteria, head swimming with the motion. Percy hurried after me, doors slamming harshly behind us, “Nico -” No, no, he had to get away from me. Too close, and he'd set my heart fluttering like something trapped in a web again, and I wasn't interested in getting acquainted with the feeling. (It felt like a vice around my rib-cage every time he touched me, every time he laughed – anything around me. It was sickening, enough for me to actively avoid him.)

I remember feeling my eyelids shuttering closed, heartbeat dropping from marathon-pace to below 40 degrees body-shutdown. Percy's hand came into contact with my shoulder, and my knees buckled from beneath me.

* * *

I was given a week suspension for 'recovery' for undisclosed reasons. My dad was pissed. My sister found it annoying, since it meant I would be home all week – meaning she couldn't skip school without my potential to snitch. Not like I would; I could hardly bring myself to care whether she was home or not.

First few hours home, and I was so lovingly gifted two black eyes, (unbroken) nose gushing with blood, and ugly bruises coloring my collarbone and shoulder dark purple and blue after a couple hours. Bianca gone, I made my way to the bathroom and forced myself into the shower. Water still cold, the ache increasing by the second, but I just wanted to clean the blood from me.

After that, I hesitated before taking some painkillers, then resided to my bed. Pathetic, painful, miserable. Like every other day of my life at that point. Sun moved from midday to sometime around mid-noon, and there was knocking on the apartment door. I remember not getting up for another ten minutes, but the knocking was incessant. “Nico! Nico, I know you're in there!”

Percy motherfucking Jackson.

Groaning, I forced myself to sit up, hissing at the pain that sparked through my shoulder. Time for more 'killers. I choked down a few dry, before tugging on a hoodie over my shirt (I forgot to get pants, leaving me in boxer-shorts. I'd regret that in a while.) Swinging the door open resulted in a wince – bad arm, bad arm, oh fuck. Percy puffed, scratching his neck, “Nico!”

Raising an eyebrow, I stared at the fourteen year old, “What are you _doing_ here? _How_ did you get here?” Percy shrugged, shuffling on the spot, “Doesn't matter. Look, are you okay? You _fainted_ , dude! I just.” He shrugged again.

Sighing, I moved aside, letting him in, “I'm – I'm fine. Seriously. You didn't need to pull a stalker stunt to check on me.” I felt bad talking to him like that, but it was a knee-jerk reaction – a...a defense mechanism, despite no need for defense. He flinched a little, stepping inside, “Sorry. And – for your information? I didn't _stalk_ you. I asked your sister...uh, Bianca, or something. Right?” Stiffening, I scowl deeply, nodding, “Yeah. Biatch Bianca.”

The air turned tense, as I left the door and scratched my head, “How long are you planning on staying 'round?” he cocked his head, “Why?” Huffing, I rolled my eyes, “I want to know if it's worth getting a knife and stabbing you, or tolerating you for a couple more minutes.” He laughed at that, ruffling my hair like he did at the start of the year. The tension eased quickly after that.

I remember feeling my heart stutter, confusion ebbing at the corners of my mind as Percy roamed the apartment, “Nice place,” He said. I shrugged, walking into the kitchen, “Want a drink?” He shook his head, making a move for the couch, before deciding to just follow me. Perching on the countertop, he cocked his head at me, “Are...Nico – you okay?” Furrowing my eyebrows, I threw him a sideglance, before I dropped it in favor of rooting in the fridge.

“I'm fine.” He released an uncertain noise, and came to stand beside me – he turned me to face him by a firm hand on my shoulder. Hissing, I winced, jerking from his grasp. Percy panicked a little, hand retracting quickly like it'd been burned, “Dude -” I sighed heavily, closing my eyes as I regained composure, “It's nothing.”

Percy stared at me incredulously, before looking down at my shoulder. It throbbed painfully, a burning sensation pulsing from that area. The older boy hesitated, looking torn between pressing further and backing off. “What's up with your shoulder? We could get you painkillers, or something.” I don't know what happened, but the energy just _drained_ from me when he gently placed his hand on my back; much more tentative this time.

I was quiet for a few moments, wordlessly grabbing for the can of cola sitting in the fridge. I close the door, sighing. For a minute, I didn't know what lie I could conjure up. Then, “Dislocated it earlier. Just popped it back in, so.” Not an entire lie. My father threw me against coffee table, and I heard a popping sound. So it sort of counted. He gave me an uncertain look, but trailed me as I walked to the couch, “You hungry?” He shook his head. In fact, he looked a little green.

Reclining carefully against the couch, I sipped my drink with a raised eyebrow. Percy's eyes flickered from my face, to my legs, then back up to my face, “Aren't you cold?” I glanced down at my underwear, “No.” I cock my head at him, “Does it make you uncomfortable or something?” He shook his head, eyes not leaving my face – struggling not to leave my face. It had been a peculiar thing to watch. Humming, I stood, swinging my arms with boredom. The only thing for me to do would be homework, but. What's the point when you're not going back to school for a week?

“Hey, uh, Nico?” He asked; tentative, hesitant. I turned to him, eyebrow raised, “What's up?” Was he going to leave now? Would I be enabled to wallow in self-pity and pain? “Can I ask you something?” Apparently not. I nod, wandering back into the kitchen. Percy watched me from the couch, looking unsure of himself. Smirking, I'd rolled my eyes, grabbing the can of cola I left on the side. I pressed the tab, familiar hiss releasing. Percy still hadn't said anything.

A silence stretches between us, my eyes locked with his.

Finally, I snort, “Anything you want, Jackson. I've been asked very strange things in my lifetime.” God, I sounded so old when I said that. I was only thirteen. My phrasing seemed to dour him a little, too, since he frowned softly after the words sunk in. “Well, uh,” Crap, I made him uncomfortable. Strolling back over, I sipped my soda, “Spit it out already.” And he did. Bluntly, he swallowed whatever was holding him back, looked directly into me (into _me_ , not into my eyes, into _me_.)

“Are you getting abused?”

The question hung in the air. Like the first star at night, or the first drop of rain on the concrete. As romanticized as that sounds, it was gut wrenching. Bianca liked stars, so I disliked them. My mother loved the rain, so I hated it. This time, please notice that I use these similes negatively:

The question hung in the air. Like the first star at night, or the first drop of rain on the concrete.

For a moment, I stared at him blankly. I couldn't breathe; my entire body nearly collapsed with the spark of pain that shot from head to toe, pulsing unforgivingly in the places that hurt most. I rubbed my shoulder absently as I thought for an answer. Percy watched everything. The way my fingers dragged forcefully over the fabric of my shirt, hands dropping to twist the hem anxiously. How I avoided his eyes, how thirteen seconds passed before my heart leaped back into action.

It was enough hesitation for him to know the answer. And yet, he waited for me to reply. So I shrugged jerkily, jaw tight as I shook my head, “No,” I muttered, “What the fuck gave you that idea?” Percy sighed heavily, looking torn between...between...I didn't know. I don't think I'll ever know.

“Well,” He murmured. It surprised me; I hadn't expected him to answer, despite my question being non-rhetorical. “You have a lot of bruises -”

“I'm clumsy.”

“You're very withdrawn -”

“Nothing wrong with being introverted.”

He threw his arms up, this disbelieving sort of smile on his face, like he was unsure whether to laugh at me, or scream, “But that's the thing, Nico!” He exclaimed. I rose a defiant eyebrow, petulant. “You seem to have no trouble making your points clear, or – or just _talking_ , y'know? I've seen you with those kids you...you, uh, you _trade_ with.” Okay, let's call it that.

Percy gave me a distraught, nearing angry look, before he tried to settle himself. “Something is off, Nico. And...” He shrugs, hand tangled in his hair. I notice that he was trying to find something, something that'd give leeway to his accusation. I tried to give him none, but I think he found it, since he let out a softer sigh, reclining back.

I remember feeling my heart beat with the panic of _knowing_ , of finding out; I don't really know why. Maybe because I didn't find my 'home situation' to be that big of a deal. A few slaps every once in a while, some quarrels with Bianca. Sometimes I got locked out of the apartment. Nothing too big. I just never really understood that it was anything worth getting upset over.

What Octavian went through? _That_ was something to cry about.

My dad wasn't (isn't) an alcoholic. He didn't get mad at me for _breathing_ , he didn't scream until his voice was hoarse because of my grades. My dad worked hard, goddammit, and if his anger got the best of him sometimes, then so be it. Bianca didn't beat me up for fun, or so much as touch me unless...unless she was emotional, I guess. But no; my life wasn't Octavian's.

What Percy was recovering from? _That_ was something to call the cops about.

I may not have known the full extent of what he was suffering, but there are scars that marks his back 'til this day, like morbid souvenirs for what he survived. I knew his mom was frail; sacrificing everything she had for this man, I had a vague idea of what they screamed every night whilst Percy hid under his bed and cried himself to sleep. That's not what was happening to me. What was happening to me wasn't even enough to warrant Percy's concern, but.

Here he was, giving me all the concern he could hold in his fourteen year old frame.

“And?” I questioned. It was wrong of me to suddenly turn cold on him, but I'd never experienced anybody trying to pry into my life as much as he was. Percy sighed, this look of shining understanding swimming in those green eyes, and it made me sick to my stomach to realize that he'd figured it out. All those things he'd been trying to understand all those weeks, those months ago? Out in the open. He knew, and it terrified me.

“I'm worried about you,” Was what he offered. I found my heart swelling at the idea. He was worried about me. Immediately, I forced the feeling down, stomach churning. “Don't be.” I muttered, offhandedly, sipping my drink. Percy sighed, “Nico...”

I shrugged off the hand that moved to rest on my good shoulder. In turn, I clutched onto the bad one, aggravated by the movement. I remember the way his hands hovered, like he wanted to just clutch me and keep my safe. At the time, I'd ignored the idea. Dangerous waters for me to thinking about. I remember how I _really, really_ wanted him to hold me like he looked like he wanted, how I just wanted a hug for the first time in what felt like years.

Pushing it all away, I sighed, “Percy. You don't know anything about me -” He gives me a pointed look, “That didn't stop you from figuring it out.” I rolled my eyes, “Because at my old school, there were a lot of kids that had 'troubled' backgrounds -” He reached for my hand, to my surprise. The warmth shocked me, the roughness of his palm against mine, how big his hand was for his lankly arms. It still amuses me to think of how disproportionate we were when we were younger.

I didn't pull away, blinking at him – like I was trying to blink away my fears, so he wouldn't see them. “You were – _are_ one of those kids with _troubled backgrounds_.” Huffing, I turned away from him. Mainly because I didn't want him to see the heat rise to my face, marginally because if he saw, he'd probably pull his hand away. “I may not know you as well as I thought I did, but listen, please?”

I didn't say anything. His other hand gently came to tilt my head back to him; I'm greeted with his soft smile, hope glimmering in those undeniable eyes. He finds something that lets him continue, hand on my jaw moving to rest on my other hand, “You know signs,” He started. I blinked. “You...you're familiar with all that – that stuff. The thing is; I know them too. I just – not as...not as good at seeing them. But I've experienced them.”

“And you saved me.” Oh god no. I did nothing, I told him a convoluted story. “You did,” He smiled, “And I owe you.” I started to shake my head, “I did nothing of the fucking sort -” Percy squeezed my hands. His fingers rested on my wrists, there was no way he couldn't feel my pulse spike. “I do, seriously. But...that – that story you told me about your friend? You meant for that to...to I dunno, _inspire_ me, in a way.” I swallowed around a lump in my throat.

Percy sighed again, cocking his head, “I get that it's none of my business, okay?” I nodded, so very tempted to snark something along the lines of _damn right it's not_ , but refrain. “But just know I am literally right here. Both now and at school; I'm in every one of you classes, dude.” I nodded again, trying to ignore the way those green eyes seared truth into my skin.

Another quiet reigned, briefly, but I snorted, “I never said I was being abused, y'know.” To that, Percy just gently rucked up the hem of my underwear – not high enough to expose anything private – just enough to show the start of yellowing green bruises that Bianca gave me. He squeezed my hand one more time, “You may not think you are, but I've been there. That, right there?” He prodded the bruise, making me wince. “Things like that have been going on for a long time.” He didn't need my confirmation.

There was an eerie, shocking moment where I felt my eyes water. Sniffing, I squeezed my eyes shut. I don't think I've ever cried in front of anyone before. Percy was a welcoming warmth; he allowed me to collapse against him, hiding my face in his shoulder.

Pathetic, really. Thirteen, acting like I was three.

But he kissed me that evening, on the cheek, before he left. That made the long hours prior feel like nothing more than a pinch in comparison to the sudden convulsion of my heart in that brief moment.

* * *

My dad found another romantic interest when it neared my fifteenth birthday.

A lady with bronze skin and eyes that shone bright like polished brass. She liked flowers, was a vegetarian – a very strict one, at that – and had a knack for gardening. My dad's girlfriend hung off of him like strangle-weed, giggled at everything she said, and adored both me and my sister. When my dad was home from work. Behind closed doors? The woman was a cruel hearted bitch.

First time I figured this out? I heard Bianca scream in pain for the first time that wasn't my fault in four years. I thought somebody had broken in, until I found Cagna Faccia (as I had come to call her,) with Bianca's braid balled tightly in her manicured fingernails. “You _will not_ talk to _me like that in this house!”_ She'd been screaming, slamming Bianca face-down on the counter every few words. My sister's eyes caught mine. Her nose poured with blood, eyes bloodshot with panic.

It had been a blur.

I strolled up to Cagna Faccia, grabbed her hair, and tore it from her scalp. Chunks of skin came back with the silk-soft strands – not strands, a _handful_ – pulpy ends red and matted with quickly drying blood. The shriek the woman had let out was satisfactory, if not gratifying, in an odd way.

Bianca jumped from her loosened grip, kicking her shin, before sharing with me a wide-eyed look of _you just did that_. Needless to say, after that encounter, things weren't exactly smooth.

My sister sat with me on the building's roof later that night, in one of our increasingly rare moments of truce. Her hand brushed through her hair. She'd let it loose, falling down her back like the mass of messy, curly ebony it was. My sister's hand lingered on the base of her skull, where her braid would've been tied. I could practically feel the ebbing pain. “Back there,” She'd muttered.

I didn't look at her, eyes glued to the polluted skies we've come to live under, finding no solace in the fact that I could no longer see the stars, even if I didn't have any particular liking towards them. No, that was for my sister to mourn. “Back there, that was...” The words sounded distorted on her tongue, “It was scary. I – I don't think I've been that scared since...” I nodded. Since the man on the plane to California.

“I just wanted to say...” She cleared her throat, shrugging, hand coming to rub her arm in the breeze. I shook my head, “You say nothing.” She shot me a confused squint, looking ready to snap at me for, what would've looked like, being rude. “You say nothing, because you don't need to thank me. I may hate you with every gaping pore on your grotty face,” She hissed at me for that,

“But you're my sister. I may want you dead one day -”

“Ditto.”

“However, if some stupid Cagna Faccia comes to hurt you, you can expect me to get pissed.” She smirks at my next words, “That's _my_ job, what she did to you? That's _my job,_ as the little brat you're stuck with.” I remember her smirk turning soft, a gentle smile that reminded me too much of my mother. It's why I blurted out what I did next, to get that smile off her face, “So let's just not talk about it, okay? Anything that happens between us and her? It stays between us.” She nodded, solemn.

And that's how I effectively ruined what chances there were of me and my sister being civil for the rest of the week.

* * *

By then, Percy had become my best – only – friend. Sure he had his; some guys at the top of the foodchain: like Jason, like Luke, like Reyna. And others: like Leo, like Frank, like Piper. I never met any of them; never had the desire to.

Unfortunately, I met the girl he had admitted to having a crush on. To me, not to her. No, no, he couldn't tell her. It'd ruin the 'dynamic' they had going on. Annabeth Chase – I never could get around to liking her. Blonde, pale-eyed, smart. A know it all. Smug, snide, shrewd. In a bout of selfishness, jealousy, I'd muttered to him that she, “Didn't seem right.”

Percy had taken it to heart, to my guilt, and had decided that Chase wasn't worth his time. That was my fault, I confess. But I found it hard to feel bad when he would sit with me on the benches outside, shoulder to shoulder, bumping our knees together as he laughed about whatever happened in class that day. It was hard to acknowledge the relationship that could've been, when he gives me these marveling shakes of his head, grin wide on his face, green eyes crinkling at the edges.

Warmth would spread through me every time, pleasant tingling up my arms, whispers of something tightening delightfully around my throat. Like somebody resting their hand on the back of my neck, but I knew that it would never be Percy. That always replaced the warmth with an icy bitterness that gnawed at my insides.

One night, bored, I returned to habits I had managed to escape from. I set a dumpster on fire outside some old Walgreens that had been shutdown for at least a couple decades. Then I left, feeling more disinterested in anything than before. When I returned home, well, it seemed things had reverted back to normal.

I was locked out of the apartment.

I turned tail, and strolled to sleep outside the building, in the alley between the apartment building and some little candy shop. I slept peacefully – as peaceful as one could get – and when I woke, it wasn't to the sun breaching the darkness. To my surprise, it had been _Percy._

A woman behind him, looking worried out of her mind. She looked like Percy, in some cases, so I presumed she had been his mother. “Nico! Nico, oh buddy,” He'd rested his warm hands on my shoulders, shocking me with how chilled I was. I barely managed a hello before suddenly he was reeling me into a hug. Warm, safe, secure. I tried to squirm out of it, voice croaky from having just woken up.

He just held me tighter, hiding his face in my hair like it'd been years since he saw me last, “What the hell are you doing out here?” He'd demanded. I hadn't replied; burrowing into shirt. I remember him smiling down at me fondly, stroking my hair whilst his other arm stayed tight around me, “C'mon, let's get you inside.”

Instead of take me to my apartment, he'd outright _scooped me bridal style_ (with his _mom_ right there, might I add,) and carried me into the little candy shop. I learned later that she was the one who owned it. Sally, that had been her name, she was a nice lady. Pretty, charming, and it quickly came to mind that this is where Percy got his enticing laugh from. She gave me her coat – tried, at least, but I denied it every time.

“I'm fine, seriously.” I'd told them, only for my friend to level me with an unimpressed look that spelled _liar_ out loud and clear, despite the tense silence in the shop. Sally wrung her hair in her fingers, “Sweetie, let me get you something. Do you like candy? There's too much of it in here,” She'd offered, but I just shook my head, “No thanks. I'm good. Actually, I should be heading home now.”

I nearly ran for the door, but Percy's hand latched onto my shoulder before I reached the door, “No, you're not. Buddy, c'mon. We got a free Saturday, let's do something.” My insides fluttered at the idea, before I sighed, “Dude, I gotta go shower, I gotta get something to eat - “

“You can do that at my house.” I gave him a mean look, only for him to continue, “You have no choice in this matter.” Sally sighed somewhere behind us, but we ignored her for that moment. “I could sick the cops on you for endangerment of a minor.” Percy snorted, then, rolling his eyes, “I'm a minor, too. Wouldn't really work.” Sighing, I relented.

The Jacksons residence had been a place I'd never visited, despite my couple years of knowing Ms Jackson's son. It was just never an option, really. Percy came over a lot, or we wandered around the city. Never his house. I was fine with that.

So stepping into a cute little apartment that smelled like citrus, ceiling to floor in blue was a mild surprise. “It, uh, it's improved. Since Gabe was around.” Gabe was Percy's abuser. The sick man who put my friend in misery for the first few months I knew him. I nodded, briefly moving to squeeze Percy's hand. It was one of the many things we did at that point, how our friendship had progressed in that way. It helped, honestly. It helped me get my meaning across, without struggling for words.

“I'll get you clothes while you take a shower, yeah?” I blinked owlishly at him, “Wait, you're actually letting -” Percy just smile, ushering me to the bathroom before telling me where the towels were. Then he closed the door; I listened to his retreating footsteps.

I forgot too often how kind he could be.

I didn't stay in the shower for long – didn't give myself enough time to enjoy the warm water. Just scrubbed thoroughly before hopping out and drying off. Turning the shower off, I wrapped the towel around myself, opening the door a little, “Perce?” I called.

He came down the hall, from his room, bundle of clothing in his arms, “Hey buddy.” I took the clothes from him. He closed the door, but I knew he was waiting outside for me. Sighing, I pulled the oversized shirt over my head, tugging up the cozy pair of sweatpants. They slipped down a little, but that was okay. (I definitely didn't bring the collar of the shirt up to sniff it or anything.

(*Okay, maybe I did. Just a little bit.)

(**A lot.)

Opening the door, he grinned at me. I smile back, shutting it behind me, “Thanks.” He rose an eyebrow, confused. “For all of this.” I elaborated, ignoring anything that came out of his mouth after that. It would all just be modesty and humble denial anyways.

I'll tell you now; what happened after that had been one of the most stress-free days I'd had in a long time. He made me a bowl of cereal, and we sat in front of the television all day. It may sound mundane, boring, but if you were there, you would have understood. How he sidled up to me, cheek on my head, the tickle of his laughter in my hair at whatever inane thing was on the television, his warmth seeping into my skin as easy as ink on paper.

You don't get that I was addicted to the way I could catch his eyes staring at me, lost in something that he found endearing that _I_ had. _My_ qualities that he seemed to like enough to like enough to look at for as long as he did.

Percy was something that I felt strongly for. I didn't – don't – feel for many things, not at that point (not anymore.) But he was one of the many few I adored. Outside of everything, he was one of my favorite things. How he ruffled my hair, how he hugged me so tightly, like I'd disappear if he let go. There are many things to Percy Jackson that I had come to enjoy, come dependent on to get by.

I learn a little later that, perhaps, I had broken me and my sister's promise for the second time.

* * *

These long nights on the roof were becoming a frequent pattern.

I dangled my legs over the ledge, my sister beside me. We haven't talked since the last time, other than the sparse words of cruelty that came with our disputes. That night felt different, however. Those bags I saw all those years ago had the dust brushed from them, looking like that had been rifled through and thoroughly checked over and over again. Canned food was disappearing from the cupboards, bottles of water too. She didn't talk to me about it, I didn't confront her. We both agreed, somewhere, that this was for the best.

What she did tell me, though, was this: “You won, fratello.”

Not _fratellino_ anymore. Just 'fratello'. In her eyes, I suppose I wasn't so little anymore. “What?” I'd asked, lost. A hand in her hair, she sighed, undoing her braid. The wind picked up, billowing her dark hair until it blended in with the dark sky. “You won.” Defeat never looked good on her. It dragged her shoulders into a hunch, bowed her head so low that she looked like a dog ashamed of its deeds. But in some sick way, it pleased me to see it. It meant I accomplished something.

“I broke our promise,” She admitted, wringing her fingers out with nerves that made her appear even smaller. When she looked to me, I could only just muster a look of insouciant composure. As if I hadn't heard her, she said it louder – voice near trembling with the fretful, anxiously apprehensive quality it took - “I broke our promise, Nico.”

I simply nodded, unsure how to respond. Did I tell her that I broke it first? Did I just pat her shoulder and tell her it was okay? I did neither of those things. “Her name's Zoe,” She said, whispering, “She lives in Kansas.” Nodding, I looked away from her. I wonder if she felt guilty, at the idea that she had seemingly betrayed me, but I was (still am,) a vile thing, and I found it entertaining to listen to her trip over herself for understanding and forgiveness.

“I – she loves me, Nico. She tells me over texts – she loves my eyes, she loves my smiles.”

“She likes my hair, she loves my voice – loves everything about me, Nico, please understand.”

Rolling my shoulders, I stared at her for a long while. Traffic below us, the wind in our hair and a hopeless, sinking feeling taking residency in my heart. “How can you be so sure?” I'd asked her. Bianca wet her lips, fumbling for her phone, “We talk all the time. Look -” Texts upon texts, back and forth. Phone calls, too, even some video chats in the cataloged history.

The sinking feeling increased, until it felt like if I took my shoes off, my soul would fall through my feet. I bit my tongue, letting her smile softly at their conversations for a few beats. A few beats turned into minutes, until it seemed she forgot I was there. Stars started to peer through the cloud cover, a moon shining weakly in the dim. She sighed quietly, jolting when I finally spoke.

“Be careful, sorella,” I told her, “The things they love about you will one day become the thing they hate.”

The look she gave me was crestfallen, dejected. Then she swallowed around a lump in her throat, squaring her shoulders. Her gaze narrowed, words cold, “I'll take my chances.” She rose to her feet, her footfalls growing quieter the further away they traveled, until I heard the door shut. Staring down at my hands, I quietly wondered why I said that. But I chalked it up to childish anger; misplaced, unreasonable, but anger.

As one would expect, that was the last time I saw her.

* * *

My fifteenth birthday rolled around, and I spent it on the fire escape.

Nearing the numbers **02:59 AM** , I watched the eerily clear sky. One lone moon hanging in the sky, no stars in sight. No chances of rain, either. Just me, the moon, and a can of cola. A cupcake, a cigarette and a lighter sat in my pocket, my watch blinking down the seconds in neon red numbers. Fifty seconds until witching hour. Fifty seconds until I became sixteen on a chilling, bone-gnawing, lonely night in January. A pointed, shiny silver party-hat sat dejectedly beside me, along with a rainbow-themed party blower. I got them just to lighten the mood, I guess.

Sighing, I wriggled my toes on the metal-grate stairs, cheek resting against the handrail. Sixteen; last year of being a minor. I could get a car. Or a motorcycle. I could buy most video games now, instead of smuggling them. That'd be fun.

As many silver linings as I could list, my birthday wouldn't be anything to celebrate.

Nobody likes being alone on their birthday.

My watch showed me twenty-two seconds. I pulled out the little cupcake, resting it on my knee whilst I lit my cigarette. Then I jammed it into the confectionery, tip glowing brightly in the dark. Sighing again, I turn the cupcake in my hand – blue icing, green sprinkles. Marlboro cigarette, zippo lighter. Humming, I swiped some of the icing onto my finger, licking it off. Sweet, sugary, disgusting. Fifteen seconds.

The sky was a mirage of blues and purples that night. Dark, foreboding, starless. I ached for somebody to be there. Just for those few seconds counting down. Somebody to smile, grinning as they whispered the seconds under their breath, to maybe murmur _happy birthday, Nico_ , or something of the like.

Thirteen seconds.

Nobody had done anything along those lines since I turned ten. And that had been Octavian and The Stolls. My first year in New York, the twins had stolen a large hunk of cake from one of their brother's birthday from a week ago. Chocolate icing smudged from where the blue, cursive font of their brother's name had been swiped in favor of messily spelling mine in chocolate chips from the cafeteria. (You could still have made out _LUKE_ underneath.)

Eleven seconds.

That had been a good year. The memory made me smile, but it quickly dropped when my eyes flickered to the little house across the street, where The Stolls had once lived. An old man and his grandchildren lived there now. I never made the effort to meet them. Then my eyes traveled to the city, to the rundown silhouette of my old middle school. Octavian died only feet away from those gnarled, rusted, links of fencing.

Ten seconds.

If I imagined hard enough, I could feel the trio's presence with me, grinning and picking at me. Maybe the twins flanking me, Octavian dangling his legs over the handrail as he sneered some cynical form of _happy birthday, dickhead_. My cigarette was quickly running out of material to burn, looking like a red glow that dimly lit the blue icing.

Nine seconds.

If I believed enough, Bianca was there, too. Smirk on her face, a boisterous gleam in those caramel eyes as she whispered, _felice sedicesimo, fratello_ _._ If I closed my eyes tight enough, my birthday was taking place in the quiet of my room, dark and atmosphere giddy as the seconds continued to count down.

Eight seconds.

Opening my eyes, there was a harsh _twang_ as something snapped in my chest: I wasn't in my room back in New Jersey, or the one back in Italy. I was on the fire escape outside my apartment complex. Miserable, cold, cradling a near-burnt cake in my hands to my chest with pathetic hope that my wishes came true.

Seven seconds.

The sky conjured clouds in those few fractions of a minute, gray and looming, heavy with what I could only presume was rain. The cigarette close to gone, ash piled pillar-like, protected from the wind my my frame.

Six seconds.

Disappointment seeped into every bone in my body like a flu taking over my sinuses. Tears pricked my eyes, throat constricting so tight that I choked. I closed my eyes again, begging whoever was up there for _somebody, anybody_. Just somebody for these fleeting seconds to smile at me and be happy I've made it that far. As far as I did.

Five seconds.

With my eyes shut tight, there was a moment where I felt a hand on my shoulder – no, multiple hands. The spindle-thin fingers of a certain anemic blond that had cool palms and a knife-sharp tongue, the matching hands of square-palms, rough fingertips of a pair that cackled like mad men after every executed prank, the soft, gentle touch of a girl with a thick braid over her shoulder, kindness to her eyes that was never for me yet was at the same time.

Four seconds.

Straining my ears, I heard soft chuckling – scratchy, hoarse crackling of a dry throat. A familiar sound that came from a boy that liked pulling apart the stitching of stuffed animals. The doubled, dizzying chortles of boys my age, confident in their planning, mischievous to a fault. Grating, girlish giggles of a girl that wasn't meant for pink frilly things, meant for the grit and dirt of long roads and multiple doorways.

Three seconds.

There was a hesitating moment where I nearly opened my eyes, nearly ruined the illusion I had made for myself. I felt a smile twitch on my mouth, tears welling up behind my eyelids, nose runny and red with the taughtness of my throat. My grip on the cake must have been crushing it by now, the crinkle of the casing rattling loudly over the wisps of fondness I had conjured for myself.

Two seconds.

Within all the excited murmurs of my friends around me, of their encouraging squeezes to my shoulders, one particular hand came to rest on my head. Strong fingers, rough palms in the sense that he carried heavy sacks of flour for the pastry his mother sold at the candy shop. A gruff, yet gentle laughter that was right for his age by then, but simultaneously still too childish for him. Warm, comforting, his other hand coming to rest over one of my, thumb gently coaxing the crushing grip I had on my poor excuse for a cake.

One second.

 _Happy birthday, buddy_ . He muttered. I could imagine those brilliant green eyes brimming with adoration for me, so proud, so fond like he always was. He ruffled my hair, air moving as he came to crouch on the stairs before me, quickly muttering the nanoseconds that counted down on my watch with the rest of them. Delight seeped into my being, but the tears were welling up far too much by then, throat cutting all breathing possibly. _Happy birthday, Nico!_ I could hear them shout, so loudly, yet so quietly at the same time that it dizzied me.

**B-BEEP. B-BEEP. B-BEEP.**

My eyes snapped open, a loud sob wrenching itself from my chest. Nobody was there. Just me, my crumbling remains of cupcake, and a cigarette that had withered into a pile of ash on top. There was no Octavian, no Stolls, no Bianca. No Percy. No grins as the numbers turned to **03:00 AM** on my wrist, no whoops or loud cheering as my age changed from fifteen to sixteen.

Nobody. Not one person. Just me. Sad, lonely, miserable, self-pitying Nico sitting on the cold, metal stairs of a fire escape at an ungodly hour of morning. Numbly, I shoved the party-hat on my head, snapping the elastic under my chin. _Make a wish, idiot_ , something whispered to me.

With tears rolling down my cheeks, I sniffled, lifting the cupcake to my mouth. I blew away the ash, watching it get carried away in the breeze. “Happy birthday to me,” I sang quietly, voice hitching with every hiccup that wracked my frame. “Happy b-birthday t...to me,” The cupcake slipped from my hands, falling icing-first into a blue mess on the stairs below me.

“Happy birthday d-dear N-N...what's the f-f-fucking point.”

I picked up the party blower, coughing wetly before I blew it with little enthusiasm. The sound was grating, obnoxious, overwhelmed by the crinkling the foil made as it unfurled. My head hung low, tears falling between my feet, _plink, plink, plink_.

I was alone. On my fucking sixteenth birthday, perhaps the only important one there will ever be in your life. I was _fucking alone_ , and goddamn, was it just the best thing. I stood, throwing the party blower over the railing, listening to it land on some of the trashcans in the alley between the building and Sally's candy shop.

My breath wouldn't settle, tears still flowing freely. To nobody, I whimpered, sitting down again. I tucked my knees to my chest, burying my head between them.

“I-I wish I w-wasn't so... _a-alone_.”

(I'll quickly learn later that nobody would grant me that wish.)

* * *

Percy didn't even know I turned sixteen until he brought up birthdays into a conversation we had. His brother's birthday, or something. Then he'd asked me when mine was, and offhandedly, I informed him it had been the Sunday prior. Everything seemed to happen on Sundays, ever since that very first one that set my life into discourse.

He'd gotten mad at me that I never told him.

He'd gotten mad at me that I never made a big deal out of it.

He'd gotten mat at me for a lot of reasons that Monday.

I left him quickly, ducking under the loose plank in the fence, and avoided him for the rest of the week.

* * *

“I love you.” I told him. Valentine's Day.

As uncaring as I could be, voice drained and tired, body ready to fall at any second. He blinked at me with wide, unbelieving eyes as I shrugged, hands in my pockets. I didn't have any chocolate for him, no pink and red cards, not even a romantic letter for him to struggle through.

“What?” He breathed. I remember wanting to smirk at him, wanting to feing enthusiasm as I jumped, yelling, “ _Oooh! Sucker!_ ” or something along those lines. My heart plummeted, stomach acid gnawing away at the small thing as I scratching my nose – ducking my head in attempt to avoid his eyes.

“You heard me.”

“Nico, I -”

Shrugging again, jerkily, I met his eyes. Sorry, pity, sympathy – all those things that come up when somebody gets ready to 'let you down easy'. “I love you. I'm sorry. But I do, I – I really fucking do.” He fell quiet, just watching me with sad eyes.

“I love you so fucking much, y'know. It hurts. It sucks. I hate it. I love you.”

“You don't have to like me back, so. So don't worry, okay? I just wanted it off my chest. I get that I probably just ruined our friendship and whatever, but.” Shrugging, I dropped his gaze, “I'm sorry.” He looked ready to blurt out a lot of things. I expected 'don't be sorry', or 'we can still be friends' to come out. I expected him to maybe even say 'we could try?', even if I declined the offer, even if it tore me apart to do so.

Instead, in panic, he warbled, “I don't like gays.” _gays._ Not _guys_. Gays.

Nodding, I turned on my heel and walked away. He didn't even shout after me, try to correct himself. I don't know which would've been better – if he had, or hadn't. In retrospect, he had simply muddled his words up, but it felt like too many stabs to my heart for me to think through at that point. I refused to go to school for a few days after that.

When I did go back, he didn't near me. Within the days I had been gone, he hadn't texted me, hadn't called me. I had smiled grimly at my phone every time I checked it, to find that nobody had tried to contact me.

So it was a surprise when he corned me at my usual place, gaining some quarters from a kid who didn't even understand what Go Fish was. The kid left, and as I had anticipated, somebody else took his place. It surprised me that it had been Percy to sit across from me, shoving my cards out of the way. “Nico -”

The second I met his eyes, it was like his body shut down. Frozen still, like he feared to say anything that'd lead me to tears. Remaining silent, I waited for him to continue. He didn't. He just got up, and walked away. I made no effort to go after him. I had lost interest in chasing after him like I used to, concerned when he was sad – if it was my fault, had I fucked up again? - I didn't care if he was angry at me. If he was upset with me.

Whilst I loved him, it was tiring.

* * *

Sometimes, I wonder if that was all worth it to be where I am now. Nineteen, going on twenty, working in a coffee shop every day after classes. I'll come home to my boyfriend that couldn't gather enough courage to tell me he reciprocated his feelings until we were eighteen.

Sometimes, I'll look at him, wondering if what we went through was really worth what we have now – a rickety, new relationship that can barely stand on all four legs. But then he'll look up from sewing another patch into his raincoat, grinning widely in that way I'll never trade for anything. He'll sidle up to me, smelling like raw salt and fish from the little fishing joint he works at down by the bay.

“Hey baby,” He'll mutter to me, kissing my cheek sweetly before he yelps, waving his finger around from where he jabbed it with that damned needle of his. “Hey yourself,” I'll smirk back, secretly reveling in the depths his green eyes shimmer at me. “My moon, my stars,” He'll whisper. “My tides, my depths,” I'll reply, standing to brew him coffee like he always likes around five, whilst he fluffs the couch pillows and throws on some old 80's horror on the television. He knows I like those.

Sometimes, we'll fall asleep to the agitating sounds of a woman screaming in the shower, sometimes we'll manage to reach the bed before collapsing.

And whilst our relationship is something new, something unsturdy, I know now that he's loved me as long as I've loved him, and it consoles me into deep slumber that I never got from eleven years old to seventeen.

He remembers all my birthdays, all the significant dates I hold dear. He remembers to pick me up on Fridays a little earlier, because my shift is always warped strangely on that day, and he buys me little tidbits whenever our budget will allow it. He held my hand, the first time I visited my mother's grave since her funeral, ten years ago, and he held my hand when I started angrily screaming at her headstone, blaming her buried corpse for all the things that happened.

He kissed my cheek when I got a text from Bianca, after three years of not hearing from her. He kissed my cheek and held me tight as I gripped my phone so hard the screen cracked, breathing difficult as my vision washed red. He murmured sweet nothings to me when a police officer knocked on our door, saying my father was caught in a fender-bender and was announced dead on the scene. Angry, sad, distraught and conflicted as I was, I simply nodded, shut the door, and fell into my boyfriend's arms. We collapsed onto the floor, his chin on my head as I listened to his steady pulse.

Sometimes, I do wonder if it was all worth it, if I could've made it on my own. The answer is always yes, it was worth it, and no; I wouldn't have made it on my own. So I shuffle that little bit closer to Percy, hand tightly gripping his shirt. Smiling down at me, it's as if I'm the center of his universe. And whilst I'd love for that to be true, I know it isn't; my self esteem wouldn't allow it. But I smile back, content for the first time in my life.

“I love you, Nico.”

“I love you too, Percy.”

And I mean it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. Take this lengthy piece of trash as my offering to those who are waiting for an update on An Eternity Of Codology. I'm sorry nothing's active on that fic right now, I'm having a lot of issues trying to type up something on that because I'm writing up a couple plans for something else. 
> 
> But, if you are not tangled in the affairs of my hiatus-status fic, then just take this as an offering of a way to waste a couple minutes of boredom, if it's enough to entertain you. Hope y'all enjoyed, as always.


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